“No.” I laugh. “You are very, very strong.”
We simply lean against each other like that for a long time. “Are you mad?” I ask finally, raising my head.
“No,” he says gently. “Do you want to come to my house?”
“Yes.”
“Just for tonight, though. We’ll go back on the wagon tomorrow.”
I smile at him. “Aren’t you supposed to stop when you realize you’ve had a drink?”
He swallows. “Yeah. But I’m already drunk.”
“Me, too,” I whisper.
It is a night I will not forget. By the end of it, my skin no longer belongs to me. Every inch has been tattooed by Rueben’s breath. He is not, when he lets himself go, a sober or serious lover at all. He tickles me. He plies me with food. He kisses the aching places. He’s frank. Wicked, even. Earthy.
He leaves me at my car near dawn, damp and sated, with a long, long, long kiss. “Once the sun rises, we start fresh.”
I nod. Not believing.
Future rose and held vein,
amethyst of yesterday and breeze of this moment
I want to forget them!
“Useless Song”
FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA,
Translated by W. S. MERWIN
35
TRUDY
Rick comes to get Colin the next morning, a day they can spend together. It’s a little awkward arranging it, and then watching the two of them try to decide what to do, but I stay out of it. They finally settle on a drive down to Trinidad, just to pick up some tools and have lunch. In the quiet, I finish wrapping presents, clean up the house, and think some more about Christmas Eve, which is looming in two days. It will be the worst for me, and I need to find some way to celebrate that will be fun and have meaning and be a little different from what I’ve done for the past twenty-something years.
As I’m mopping the kitchen, it comes to me: I’ll have a caroling party. Make the chocolate fondue the kids have loved all their lives, and invite the neighbors. Leaving the floor half done, I prop the mop against the sink and call Roberta, who is delighted at the idea, and talk to Jade, telling her she can invite Rueben if she likes. Shannelle can’t come, because she’s going to Mass with her in-laws, but promises to stop in for a few minutes anyway. She tells me in a whisper that she made the call and accepted the scholarship, but that she hasn’t told Tony yet. Last is Angel. I realize I don’t have a phone number for him, and I put on my coat and walk next door to invite him personally.
I have seen him only a few times, very briefly, since our encounter. He stopped by one evening, hoping to be invited in, but Annie was home, glowering in the corner, and he stayed only a few minutes, winking at me on the way out. And I’ve been so busy with Christmas preparations, I haven’t gone over there.
Standing on his porch, I pause for a second, suddenly aware of a rush of tangled emotions. I want him and I don’t. It was decadent and unlike me, but it was also quite wonderful. He’s too young. He’s too wild. I’m not looking for anything.
But neither is he. As I raise my hand to knock, he opens the door. “Trudee!” he says with genuine warmth and a big smile. “I have been hoping to see you. Come in. I have something wonderful to show you.”
“Really?” I step inside and smell the cinnamon that always hangs in the air here, and it makes my hip joints weak. He closes the door behind me and I step aside to give him room, but he halts directly in front of me.
“How are you?” he says, looking directly at my face.
“Good,” I say. “How are you?”
His smile is slow and wicked. “Very hungry.”
I blush, and it’s ridiculous. Lowering my eyes, I make a sound like hmmm. He laughs, takes my hand, draws me into his dangerous kitchen. There is a pile of fresh vegetables on the table, red peppers and green ones, and even an orange one. They cost so much, I never buy them, but it’s beautiful there with a scattering of yellow onions and the long shape of a zucchini. “What are you cooking?”
He laughs again. “Nothing yet. I was playing with my camera. Would you like to try?”
“Sure.” He gives me his heavy Minolta, lightly touches the small of my back to nudge me toward the inviting still-life. I look at it all through the lens, the way the light plays over the red and yellow and green skins, swooping here, disappearing there. I snap a photo, close in, of the curve of the orange one, lift the camera, touch it. “You should make stew.”
“Maybe I will. I’m going to kiss you now, Trudy, all right?” And before I can say no, not that I would have, he’s doing it, just leaning in and touching my mouth with his own. A brush of lips, of tongue, of his palm on my cheek, then away. “Is that all right?”
“Yes.”
“Now I have to show you what has me so cheerful this morning.” He takes an envelope from the counter and opens it. He’s always lively, but this is more than usual, and he takes out a sheaf of photographs. “You are going to make me famous, mi embruja. Look.”
He gives them all to me, a thick stack of eight-by-tens. They’re all of me. “Oh, my God,” I breathe, both appalled and enchanted. There is the series on the bed, with the light falling in bars over my naked flesh, and I have never seen myself this way, through these eyes. My hair and the curves of my back and hips, the length of my legs, the smoothness of white, white skin. There are several others, too, the ones he took the morning of Thanksgiving, standing in his kitchen, and a couple in the white shirt I wore after we had sex, photos I wasn’t aware of him taking. In one, the curve of a breast brushes the edge of the open fabric.
Looking at them, though, the woman in the photos somehow becomes not me, but a subject of light and glitter and color. They are so exquisite that I nearly want to weep.
I raise my eyes to him, stricken.
“Do you not like them?” he asks, touching my face. “Say only a word, and I will burn them all forever.”
“No! No, don’t burn them. They’re wonderful. Beautiful. I want to see the whole world through your eyes.” And this time, I touch him, touch his beautiful face. Lean in and kiss him very gently. “What a surprise you are.”
He takes the photos from my hands and comes close, touching my back, my hips, lifting my blouse to stroke my skin, just looking at me. “And you, such a creature of light. It is darkness that sets free the duende. How does all your light bring it to my heart?”
One day, this will all be a memory. Right now, it’s real. It’s happening. “Can I kiss you, Angel?”
“Please,” he whispers, and meets me halfway. He talks as we kiss. “Light me up. Set me free.”
And I laugh softly, because they are the things he’s done for me. “I’m going to Seville in February,” I say.
“That’s very good.” His hands are in my hair, hips pressing close. “To study your Lorca. To see that world. They will love you, they will fall in love with your light.”
Not love, I want to say. He doesn’t mean fall in love that way, and I know it, and it’s very fine.
And when we are finished kissing, and touching, and setting each other afire again, he takes his camera and settles me in the chair in the kitchen and puts the vegetables in my lap and shoots rolls and rolls of film. I feel beautiful and alive. He takes my picture and I take his.
I forget, until the very end, to tell him that I am having the caroling party. He smiles wickedly. “Your daughter will not chase me with a broom if I come?”
I laugh. “No. I won’t let her.”
“Then I will be happy to come and eat chocolate. I will bring wine and something sweet, yes?”
“Yes.”
And I leave him as bemused and light-footed as I always do, crossing the grass between our houses with a silly smile on my face, one that is reflective of all that has transpired today. In my hand are the photos, copies he’s given me for myself. I’ll have to hide them somewhere safe, but I couldn’t bear not to have them. I wish I could frame them and hang them in my living room. Perhaps my b
edroom.
When the kids are grown up.
In the meantime, they are my own luscious secret.
It isn’t until I round the trees that I see Rick’s truck parked in the driveway. The envelope of photos suddenly burns my fingers, and I look around for a place to hide it. There is nowhere, and I have to carry it inside, pulsing a red light from within. The red of my passion, the red of my hair.
Rick and Colin are sitting on the couch when I come in. No music is on. The television has been moved to the other room, of course. Neither of them looks particularly happy. “Hi, guys,” I say. “What’s up? How come you’re home so early?”
Colin’s face has a ruddy stripe of color on each cheekbone. “We just finished sooner than we thought. Can I go now?”
I send a questioning look toward Rick. He shrugs, defeated. “I’m making supper in a little while,” I say.
Colin stands, bends over to hug his dad. Neither of them looks in the other’s eyes. My son goes upstairs. We hear the door slam, the music come on. I look at Rick. “What happened?”
He rubs his face. “I don’t know. He just started busting my balls about everything and I yelled at him.”
I take a breath, sit in the chair. The envelope is still in my hands, burning my fingertips, and I put it aside in what I hope is a casual way. Then I pick it up again, afraid I’ll leave it and Annie or Colin will be curious, pick it up.…
“Where you been?” Rick asks.
“Next door.”
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t think Roberta put that look on your face.”
I only lift my eyebrows.
“Jesus, Trudy. He’s like twelve years old.”
“Don’t go there, Rick,” I warn. “It’s none of your business.”
“Right.” He stands up. “None of this is my business anymore, right? Not you, not my kids, who I never see, who—” He flings up a hand. “Never mind.” He stalks toward the door and I’m telling myself not to feel sorry for him, that he made his bed and has to sleep in it, that—
But he was the center of my universe for a long, long time, and I see the agony and sorrow in the bend of his neck, the frustration in his balled fist. “Rick, you just have to give it some time. The kids will come around.”
He halts by the door, chin raised. “Will they?”
There are a thousand things in my mind. His eyes are so familiar. I know every shadow and smile that can come over that mouth. I see that his mustache needs trimming, that there are circles of weariness under his eyes. I stand, put the photos on the couch, and say, “Come here.”
He collapses into my embrace, his long strong arms fierce around me. “How did I get here, Trudy? What day can I find to go back to and fix?” His breath is warm on my neck and his body is so achingly familiar and so distant at once that I almost can’t bear it.
As I stand there, holding my husband, I feel the difference in myself. With Angel, there is light and relief. With Rick, it goes down through the soles of my feet, through the marrow of my bones. It’s a love so deep and wild and fierce that it sucks away my breath, and I am ashamed to want to weep into his shoulder. My arms tighten, and we simply stand there like that for a long, long time, holding each other, giving each other relief from everything else that might be out there. He presses a kiss, very lightly, to my ear, and lets me go. “I’ll see ya,” he says.
I nod.
* * *
Christmas Eve, Roberta and Jade are the first to arrive. Colin and Annie have helped me clean the house and I’m pleased at the joy they’re showing. We’ve spread out the lace tablecloth, and the red glasses Rick’s mother gave me three years ago.
Colin holds one. “I miss Granny.”
Annie says, “Me, too. A lot.”
“Let’s set a plate for her,” I say. “What do you think?”
“Wrong holiday, Mom.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Colin says. “I’ll get it.”
Annie raises her eyebrows. “Can we put one for Dad, too, then?”
“Are you missing him tonight?”
A shrug. “Kinda. It just doesn’t feel like Christmas without him. I mean, we can pretend all we want, but aren’t we all thinking about how hollow it feels?”
“You talking about Dad?” Colin has brought a plate and silver, which he settles to the right of the head of the table, where she always sat.
“Yes.” I fold a napkin. “Are you missing him, too?”
His face closes; then he flicks a glance toward Annie. My little tough girl is near tears. Colin relents. Nods. “It’s not the same.”
“I know.” I take a breath. “But that’s why we’re doing something different tonight, something we can celebrate on our own.”
“Do you miss him at all, Mom?” Annie asks.
Every second, I want to say. Every millisecond. There is not an instant of any day that isn’t filled with some thought of him, some memory, some hunger. Aloud, I say, “Of course I do. But sometimes things change and you have to make the best of them.”
Roberta’s arrival halts the conversation, thank God. She looks frail and tired tonight, and she leans on Jade’s arm. In her other hand, Jade has a cake. I gesture for Annie to take it, and Jade settles Roberta at the table. Bending down to hug her, I smell a hint of L’Origan perfume and the oil she uses in her hair. “How are you, sweetie?”
“I’m all right.” She points. “That cake is for your husband. You’ll be seeing him, I expect?”
I shoot an amused glance at Jade. “We’ll see him. Even if I have to make a special trip, I will, okay?”
Angel arrives next, and with him comes a glorious smell of chocolate and cinnamon. “Hello, beautiful lady,” he says to Roberta, and kisses her cheek. He puts a tiny wrapped package in front of her. He hands Jade one that’s slightly larger, and a matching one to Annie, who blushes the slightest bit.
In front of Colin, he halts and extends his hand. “I am Angel Santiago. You must be Colin, yes?”
“That’s right,” Colin says, ice in his voice.
He has another package, slim and flat, which I’m afraid might be a photograph. He’s also got a pot of something, and I say, “Bring that into the kitchen.”
There’s a rustle of arousal on the back of my neck as he follows me, as if he is touching me. Which of course he cannot. In the kitchen, he stands very close, keeps up the chatter, cheerful and upbeat about the ingredients in the stew he’s brought, and he looks over his shoulder, then puts his hand on my bottom and squeezes lightly. “Beautiful ass,” he whispers. “Sneak away from your children tonight, Trudy. Come to visit me.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
His eyes up close are like the bodies of dragonflies, iridescent. “Try. I have a surprise for you.”
I nod, and slip back into the other room. Colin gives me a speculative look. The doorbell rings and I dash for it gratefully. “That must be Shannelle.”
It’s Rick. For one long second, I’m frozen dead as a statue, staring at him, his hair, his eyes, the gray creeping around his mouth. He’s holding a box of presents, and he notices my hesitation. “Can I come in?”
“Sure. Yes. As a matter of fact, Roberta made a cake just for you.”
“Sleigh Bells” is on the radio, ring-ring-ringing into the suddenly still room. Jade and Roberta, Annie and Colin, and Angel, looking distinctly mischievous—and God, so young!—all turn to see who I let in.
Annie leaps up. “Daddy!” she cries, and throws her arms around his neck. “What’re you doing? I’m so happy to see you!”
Rick has an abashed and grateful expression on his face that breaks my heart. “Bringing you presents, silly girl.”
Colin comes over, too, and gives his father a hug. “Sorry about the other day,” he says quietly.
Rick squeezes his arm. “It’s all right, son.”
The phone rings and I pick it up. There’s an immediate click, and I growl at it. “That’s about the tenth hang-up I’ve had in three day
s.” Even though I know the caller ID box will not show a number I recognize, I punch it anyway. It’s a 970 area code. Nobody I know.
Rick is looking at me with an odd expression. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
From across the room, Roberta says, “Come sit down, son. We’re fixin’ to sing Christmas carols.”
“I … uh …” He touches his mustache, looks at Roberta, the kids, me. Angel, who is perched at the end of the table in Rick’s old spot, licking a crumb off one finger. There’s a bright, feral look in Angel’s eyes as he plucks a strawberry, dips it in the fondue, and eats it, and it is meant to make us—me—think of other things. Which it does. He winks.
Rick catches it. “I’m Rick Marino,” he says, sticking out his hand.
“Ah, yes,” Angel says. “The old husband.” He wipes his hand on a napkin, and I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing. “I am Angel Santiago.”
Jade covers her mouth with her hand. I take a long sip of water as the two men shake hands. Rick drawls, “Ann-hell.”
“Sit down, Rick,” Roberta says.
“We’re going to sing Christmas carols, Dad,” Annie says, and she shoots an urgent look at Colin.
“I don’t think so, kids. Your mom’s got her party going.” He looks at me. “Merry Christmas.”
My discomfort and amusement suddenly explode and all I feel is an agonizing wish to make him feel better. It’s a sickness in me, I swear to God. My weakness makes me angry and I hold up my chin. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”
“C’mon, Dad,” Annie pleads. “Just sing a couple of songs with us. We’ll sing your favorites first.”
A flash of a Christmas Eve Mass and “Little Drummer Boy” comes over my imagination. “I’m sure your dad has things to do. We’ll see him tomorrow.”
But Annie starts to sing “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and Roberta, her partner in crime, starts to sing, too, and Rick stands there with his hands at his sides, looking winded. I give in and start to sing, too, and the other three, Angel included, chime in. Colin’s voice is deep and true, Annie’s light and high, Roberta’s has the robustness of Aretha.
The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue: A Novel Page 25